Stardust of Yesterday

By Lynn Kurland

OCR by svetico (svetico.by.ru)

Stardust of Yesterday………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….
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Prologue………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………
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Chapter One…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………
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Chapter Two………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..
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Chapter Three…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….
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Chapter Four………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………
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Chapter Five.……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..
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Chapter Six…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………
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Chapter Seven……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………
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Chapter Eight……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..
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Chapter Nine………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………
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Chapter Ten……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….
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Chapter Eleven…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..
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Chapter Twelve………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….
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Chapter Thirteen………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..
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Chapter Fourteen……………………………………………………………………………………………………………….
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Chapter Fifteen…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..
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Chapter Sixteen………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….
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Chapter Seventeen…………………………………………………………………………………………………………….
91

Chapter Eighteen……………………………………………………………………………………………………………..
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Chapter Nineteen……………………………………………………………………………………………………………..
106

Chapter Twenty……………………………………………………………………………………………………………….
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Chapter Twenty-one………………………………………………………………………………………………………..
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Chapter Twenty-two………………………………………………………………………………………………………..
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Chapter Twenty-three………………………………………………………………………………………………………
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Chapter Twenty-four………………………………………………………………………………………………………..
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Chapter Twenty-five………………………………………………………………………………………………………..
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Chapter Twenty-six………………………………………………………………………………………………………….
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Chapter Twenty-seven…………………………………………………………………………………………………….
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Chapter Twenty-eight………………………………………………………………………………………………………
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Chapter Twenty-nine……………………………………………………………………………………………………….
164

Chapter Thirty………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….
169

Chapter Thirty-one…………………………………………………………………………………………………………..
176

 

Prologue

Seakirk Keep, England, 1260

“Damn you, man!” Kendrick of Artane exclaimed. “Have you no idea who I am?”

Matilda’s lover looked at him blandly. “I know perfectly well who you are. It hardly matters, as your illustrious father is not here to save you.”

“He will have your head for this,” Kendrick spat, his pale green eyes blazing. “You won’t live out the year once he discovers what you’ve done.” He jerked against the chains that bound his wrists and ankles to the cold, damp wall.

Richard shrugged. “Perhaps he’ll think wolves found you, or ruffians. The possibilities are numerous.”

“You’ll rue this day, Richard. I’ll see to it myself.”

Richard smiled and raised his crossbow. “I appreciate the gold you brought so discreetly to give Matilda a dowry. You’ve made me quite a wealthy man.”

“Wait,” Kendrick said. “I want Matilda to witness this. I want to be looking at her when your arrow finds my heart.”

Richard laughed. “Of course. She is eager to be here.” A motion of his hand sent his squire scurrying up the cellar stairs. Kendrick continued to look at Richard, unable to believe the events of the past few hours.

Was it only yestereve that he had ridden through Seakirk’s gates with such a light heart, pleased the king had awarded him Seakirk and Seakirk’s lady as a bride? Was it merely yestereve that he had gazed upon Matilda, bewitched by her beauty, only to watch her expression turn to one of hatred and satisfaction once Richard of York had entered the great hall with his guards? Even though Kendrick had killed many of his attackers, he and his few companions had been hopelessly outnumbered. Now he stood, chained to the wall, awaiting certain death.

Kendrick met Matilda’s eyes as she came down the steps, and cursed himself for his foolishness. Why had he been so blind? Surely her treacherous manner should have been plain to him: the coy way she batted her lashes, the sly way she had of twisting words and avoiding plain speech. And that smile. A shudder went through him. Her smile chilled him more fully than the stone at his back.

He shook his head, cursing himself again. Aye, he had been a fool indeed and perhaps deserved what was coming.

He swung his gaze back to Richard. He looked his murderer full in the face and waited, daring him to release the arrow.

Richard did.

Chapter One

San Francisco, July 1995

It was good to be home. Genevieve set her suitcase on the curb, propped her portfolio against her leg and sighed in plea-sure at the sight of her office. The sign had been painted to perfection, the flowers behind the windows were blooming obediently and the door was ajar, beckoning clients to enter. Yes, it looked like the kind of place a homeowner would come to with pictures of his dilapidated house, hopeful some kind of magic could be done to restore it to its former glory. And without exception, every such homeowner left satisfied. Genevieve knew her business and she had hired others who knew it just as well. Her clients were never disappointed.

Genevieve lugged her baggage inside the front door, then laughed at the sight that greeted her. “Welcome home. Gen” was painted on a huge banner taped across her office door. She set her things down and went into her office. Flowers covered her desk, balloons hung in great bunches against the ceiling.

“Surprise!”

Her small staff crowded around her. A plate of cake was put into one hand and a cup of punch in the other as she was herded to her chair. Questions came at her from all sides.

“So, did you see any stars?”

“What did they think of the proposal?”

“Did you bring us anything back?”

Genevieve laughed as she looked around her. How good it was to be back among friends. On her right was Kate, who had been with her the longest and was mainly concerned about what kinds of celebrities hung out in old houses. Then there was Peter, carpenter extraordinaire, who was interested strictly in the details of each job. Angela, who held down the fort, was twenty going on ten when it came to presents. She stood on Genevieve’s left, practically salivating with anticipation. Genevieve smiled.

“Well, as for stars, I saw only the big dipper. They loved the plans, and, Angela, your present is in my suitcase.” She took a bite of cake and looked at the three of them crowded around her desk. “Does that satisfy you?”

“I want a better report,” Peter said, “but I can see I’ll have to wait. Angela, go get that phone. Gen, I’m going to the Murphys’ this afternoon. Don’t eat too much cake. Chocolate makes you sick.”

“Yes, Dad,” Genevieve said, with a mock salute.

“I’m out too,” Kate said, moving to the door. “I have things to put together for your trip to Carmel this afternoon. You remembered that, didn’t you?”

“Right,” Genevieve said, with another salute. “Thanks for the reminder.”

“That’s what I’m here for,” Kate said, smiling. “It’s nice to have you home. We’ll have to do a long lunch tomorrow and you can give me the scoop.”

Genevieve nodded and then leaned back in her chair with a sigh. Life was too good to be true. After eight years of hard work, her business was booming. What more could she want? She looked around her office and sighed. Actually, a knight in shining armor might have been handy. Maybe he could have saved her from the mess surrounding her.

She closed her eyes in self-defense. Despite its charm, Dreams Restored was a tiny place scrunched between other tiny shops in one of the quainter areas of San Francisco. Tiny was fine when it came to how much square footage she paid rent on, but it was a problem when it came to storing all her supplies. Her desk was piled with fabric swatches, paint sample cards and photocopies of her tax forms from 1991. The floor around her desk boasted everything from half-stripped moldings to books on medieval architecture. At the moment, it was also piled high with flowers and balloons. Everyone else’s desks were tidy. Maybe that knight should come along with a Day-Timer and some file boxes while he was at it.

“Gen, you have a call on line two. Some attorney with a great British accent.” Angela was breathless. “Think he’s a royal?”

So, the cavalry had arrived. Genevieve laughed at the absurdity of her previous thoughts. “I’ll let you know.”

“Well, take the job anyway. I bet Buckingham Palace has great souvenirs.”

Genevieve picked up the phone. “This is Genevieve Buchanan.”

A man cleared his throat. “Ah, Miss Buchanan, my name is Bryan McShane. I represent the firm of Maledica, Smythe and deLipkau, based in London. I am in San Francisco this week and I wondered when it would be convenient for me to drop by. I have a legal matter to discuss with you.”

“A legal matter?” she echoed. Who in the world would want to sue her? And for what? For leaving them with uneven floorboards in the kitchen or stenciling that wasn’t quite up to snuff? She was certainly as human as the next person but she considered herself a far sight more meticulous. She took her restoration work very seriously.

“About an inheritance,” the man replied. He lowered his voice, as if he were afraid others were listening in on the conversation. “This is a matter that needs to be discussed in person, Miss Buchanan. Are you free this afternoon?”

“Mr. McShane,” she said, slowly, “I think you have the wrong person. I’m an only child and my parents were only children. They have both passed on and I have no other relatives.”

“Miss Buchanan, I assure you that you do have an inheritance and it is quite substantial. You are the last living direct descendant of Matilda of Seakirk. Rodney, the last earl of Seakirk, passed away recently and I have been sent to inform you of what awaits you.”

“Who? Are you certain?”

“The earl of Seakirk. And yes, I’m quite certain. My research in that area has been meticulous. When would it be convenient for you to meet and discuss this?”

Genevieve shook her head. “But there must be thousands of his descendants—”

“Regrettably, all others have either passed on or are otherwise unable to claim the inheritance.”

“Otherwise unable?”

Mr. McShane was silent for a long moment. “Insanity seems to run rampant in the family, Miss Buchanan.”

Genevieve was sorely tempted, despite that last little morsel to make her think twice about having anything to do with her ancestors. Unfortunately, reality had other plans for her that afternoon. She’d promised the Campbells she would take a look at their property in Carmel. She cradled the phone between her shoulder and ear as she set to work on a jumbled pile of paperwork.

“I’m sorry, Mr. McShane,” she sighed, “but this afternoon is impossible. Is there something you could mail me and let me look over?”

“I fear I was specifically instructed to speak to you about this in person. Perhaps later in the week?”

The man was persistent, she would give him that. And despite her doubts, she was intrigued. The thought of inheriting some bauble from an ancestor of noble blood set her mind working furiously. What could it be? And the history behind it? What if it were an ancient treasure?

“Perhaps over dinner?” Mr. McShane prompted.

“Dinner would be fine,” she heard herself saying. Well, she could make it back for a late supper. She gave Mr. McShane the name of a restaurant downtown and hung up the phone.

Maybe it was some gaudy dinner ring. The meager contents of her safety deposit box could use some company. She would sign the papers, claim her prize, and that would be that.

The restaurant noises around her seemed magnified far beyond what they should have been. She heard silverware clanking against china, the sound of liquid being poured into glasses, people chewing, swallowing, burping discreetly. She noticed the redness of Bryan McShane’s watery blue eyes, the pinched lines of strain around his mouth, the unfortunate lack of hair on top of his head. And, most notably, the way his hands fluttered over his silverware and around the crystal stem of his wineglass like little butterflies, too timid to land on something that might suddenly come to life and have them for a snack. And this new awareness was all due to the shock she felt over his announcement.

“A castle?” she repeated in a strangled voice.

“A castle,” he nodded, his hand fluttering up to pull at the knot of his tie. “Seakirk once boasted a nunnery and the finest hall on the coast of what is now Northumberland. The abbey is in ruins, but the keep is in almost perfect condition. It merely awaits your loving touch.”

Genevieve moistened her lips, realized it was a futile gesture, then downed the contents of her water glass in two gulps. A castle? No, she was dreaming. Things like this didn’t hap-pen in real life.

“You’re kidding, right?” she managed.

Mr. McShane shook his head. “The castle is yours. Miss Buchanan. All you need to do to claim it is live there.”

Genevieve ruthlessly squelched the exuberance that flooded her. She put her hands on the table and pushed her chair back a bit, shaking her head.

“I couldn’t,” she said, shaking her head again just in case her words hadn’t sounded convincing enough.

“Please don’t be hasty,” Mr. McShane said quickly. “By all means, take a few days and consider it. Did I mention that along with the castle, you have inherited a blank cheque?”

“I beg your pardon?”

Mr. McShane pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped off the fog that had suddenly accumulated on his glasses. “Miss Buchanan, the bank account that awaits you is so large, 1 doubt you could spend a tenth of it in your lifetime. In essence, you have free rein with more funds than you can imagine, to use any way you want. Perhaps in the refurbishment of your castle.” He deposited his glasses back onto his nose and peered at her intently, waiting.

“Oh, no,” she moaned, clutching the edge of the table. “This can’t be happening to me.”

“A stroke of marvelous fortune, if I might venture an opinion. Certainly an opportunity not to be missed.”

Genevieve grasped frantically at her fast-disappearing shreds of reason. “I can’t just up and leave my business,” she said, mentally making a list of all the travails she had gone through to build it up. “Do you have any idea how many years it’s taken me to convince people I was a restoration artist, not just a glorified interior decorator? I have clients all over the country.”

There, that was beginning to sound reasonable. “I love my work,” she said, warming to the topic. “Discovering the personality of the original structure, scraping away all the layers of living and old paint is what fires my imagination. How could you possibly ask me to give that up in return for spending the rest of my life in a castle I might hate at first sight?”

“But, Miss Buchanan, what could be more stimulating than doing restoration work on a marvelously preserved thirteenth-century castle?” He looked at her pleadingly. “Just think of all that money and the fine antiques you could buy with it. Why, you could even restart your business in England.”

Oh, a lawyer’s logic. Genevieve felt her fine resolutions begin to slip away from her like water down a drain. Heaven help her, she was actually considering it!

She had to escape—quickly, before she did something she’d regret. Her business was her life. She’d worked hard to build it from nothing. It was the one thing she had done on her own, without any help from anyone. Money and property weren’t more important than that.

“Mr. McShane, I’m going to have to say no.”

“But—” The butterfly fingers set to rapid, helpless flight. “If you do not take the castle, it will go to a distant relative of the late earl’s. Surely you don’t want that to happen.”

Genevieve stood. “I have to go,” she said miserably, then turned and ran from the restaurant.

A half hour later, Genevieve walked into her apartment and shut the door behind her. She bolted it by feel, then leaned back against it, letting the darkness envelop her. She let her bag slide to the floor. Her jacket followed.

She pushed away from the door and started down the hallway, counting the doorways by touch. Second on the right. She put her hand on the knob, then turned slowly. She stepped inside the room, then closed the door behind her. It was only then that she reached for the switch. Pale, golden light immediately filled the room, throwing the shadows back into corners and crevices.

She sat down on the floor right where she was and simply stared at what surrounded her. Castles. Castles of all sizes, shapes and colors. Paper castles she had taped, puzzle castles she had laminated, primitive wooden castles she had hammered. Then there were the castles she had purchased, replicas of ones that had existed in times past, castles that were only shells now on that distant isle.

She smiled faintly. It was her shrine, the place where she came when life wasn’t going so well. No matter what had really happened in the Middle Ages, to her a castle represented security. It was a place of refuge from the storms of life, a place full of family and laughter and love.

And now she had been offered one.

Was Bryan McShane a fairy godmother in disguise? Good grief, the structure alone was enough to send her mind reeling. What would it be like to own something so deeply coated with layers of history that she could never have scraped away all the signs of living? Not that she would have wanted to. No, she would have restored the structures and their interiors to their original glory, searching for months for the perfect piece to go in that corner, or the perfect tapestry to line that wall. It would have been a restoration expert’s dream. And if that were as deep as her feelings ran, it might have been easier to walk away from the opportunity. Unfortunately, her fascination didn’t stop with just the stones and mortar.

In grade school when the other girls had been playing with dolls, she had been daydreaming of dragons and knights. In high school when the other girls had been worrying about makeup and boyfriends, she had been daydreaming about dragons, knights and their medieval abodes. During college when the other girls had been either trying to catch a man or hopping on the fast track, she had been busily designing, sketching and furnishing medieval dwellings for her knight to come home to after a hard day of dragon slaying. Castles had always figured prominently in her imagination, and certainly no castle had been complete without a charming, chivalrous and handsome knight who loved only her.

Freud would have had a field day with her daydreams. She didn’t want to speculate on why she continually felt the need to be rescued, but she suspected it had a great deal to do with the fact that most people tended to walk all over her and she tended to lie down and let them do it.

Well, that wouldn’t happen this time. Who knew what kind of domineering kin waited for her on yon isle, ready to leave footprints on the back of her shirt? No, it was best she stay right where she was. Her business was her life. She had sweated and slaved to get where she was. Her work had eased the pain of having lost her parents, distracted her from thoughts of a lover, kept her from agonizing because she had no children.

Her staff had become her family. They loved her, fussed over her, gave her a sense of belonging she’d never had, even in her own family. Her work demanded all her energies. What love she would have given to little ones, she lavished on the houses she restored. No detail was too small or insignificant. Old wood became beautiful under her hand, weathered stone threw off Sheetrock coverings, brick emerged from under layers of paint. Houses blossomed and took on a homey feeling. No matter that she created such a feeling for others. It was her joy.

And no amount of money was worth giving that up. Her father had been obsessed with money, her mother obsessed that he didn’t make enough. He’d had a heart attack at fifty and her mother had soon followed him to the grave. After the estate had paid the bills, the attorney had handed Genevieve her inheritance. The irony hadn’t escaped her. Two lives spent chasing after things that hadn’t lasted just to leave her a five-hundred-dollar legacy. She still had the check. It helped her keep her perspective.

No, she wouldn’t give in to temptation. She rose and walked back to her front door. After flipping on the lights, she picked up her purse and retrieved Bryan McShane’s card from her wallet and carried it into the kitchen. She turned on the faucet and started the garbage disposal.

And she froze. Well, perhaps that was a bit drastic, even for her. Maybe she could bargain for visitation rights. She shut the disposal off and turned off the water. Perhaps a month during the winter, when things were slow.

She hesitated.

Then she put her shoulders back. She did not need this dis-traction. It was best to just walk away while she still had the determination to. Foolish or not, she had her reasons and she was very clear about what they were. She threw Mr. Mc-Shane’s card on top of a pile of papers she intended to recycle.

And it was with only a slight twinge of regret that she turned off the kitchen lights and went to bed.

Chapter Two

“But—”

“We have nothing further to discuss. Miss Buchanan. Good day.”

There was a click and then a dial tone. Genevieve looked at the phone in her hand and felt the urge to take it apart and see just what kind of bug had been put inside to torment her. That was the third client in a week who had dropped her like a scalding potato.

Her office door opened and Kate walked in. Genevieve pushed aside her concern. “Well, how did it go?” she asked.

Kate shrugged helplessly. “It was going fine until the phone call, then they threw me out of the house. No explanation, just good-bye and good riddance.”

Genevieve sighed and replaced the receiver she still held. “Maybe it’s something in the air. I just lost the Montgomery account.”

Kate sank down into the chair facing Genevieve’s desk. “You’re kidding.”

“I wish I were.”

“Gen, that was a half-million-dollar account! What in the world did you do?”

Genevieve pursed her lips. “I didn’t do anything.”

“But you must have! Why in the world would they have dumped us unless you offended them or something? You know how touchy they are.”

Genevieve knew exactly how touchy her clients were because she’d been hung up on by several of them over the past two weeks. “If you’re trying to help, Kate, you’re doing a terrible job.”

“I think you should take some kind of class, Gen. Maybe you need to work on your delivery. I can’t afford to work for someone who offends everyone she meets. In fact, I don’t think I can afford to work for you at all.” She stood up. “I quit.”

Genevieve watched in complete astonishment as Kate left her office and slammed out the front door.

The phone rang. When it continued to ring, Genevieve frowned. Where was Angela? She finally reached for the receiver and picked it up.

“Dreams Restored, this is Genevieve.”

“Gen, it’s Peter. I’m at the airport. In Denver.”

“What’s up?”

“They fired me, that’s what’s up! What did you do to these people?”

Genevieve could hardly believe what she was hearing. “I didn’t do anything.” Hadn’t she just said the same thing to Kate? This was starting to become a bad habit. “Listen, Peter, let me call the Johnsons and see what’s—”

“Don’t. Don’t do anything else. They want nothing to do with you and told me they would sue for harassment if they heard from any of us again. I quit, Gen. You’re ruining my reputation.”

“But—”

“I’ll clean out my stuff when I get back. Sometime when you’re not there.”

The phone went dead. Genevieve could hardly believe her ears. She replaced the receiver slowly. The phone began to ring almost immediately. Where was Angela, anyway? She got up and walked out to the tiny reception area.

Angela’s souvenir collection was gone, but there was a note secured to the computer screen with well-chewed gum.

I quit, too, Gen. Sorry. Angela.

Genevieve put her head in her hands and tried to groan. It came out as more of a whimper. Business reversals were one thing. Having the entire crew abandon ship was another thing entirely. She sat down heavily at Angela’s desk, staring at the phone lines that were blinking furiously. Maybe she could get a temp in for the day until she could find someone permanent.

But until she took a few calls, she wouldn’t have a phone line free to get out on. She picked up line one, steeling herself for the worst.

Eight hours later, she wondered how she could have underestimated how bad things could get. Kate had reappeared about ten A.M. with moving boxes and cleaned out her desk. At noon, a messenger from Kate’s attorney had delivered a demand for two-months’ severance pay, with the threat of a law-suit if Genevieve didn’t comply. Genevieve had been so numb, she’d cleaned out her savings account to do it.

It had been the afternoon for attorneys. Genevieve had heard from at least a dozen of them, representing various clients who never wanted to hear from her again. If it hadn’t hurt so badly each time she pinched herself, she would have been certain she was in a very prolonged, very vivid nightmare.

And so, eight hours into the dream from hell, she still sat at Angela’s desk. The phone lines weren’t blinking anymore. Angela’s office keys were in a tidy pile. Kate’s were in another tidy pile right next to them. Genevieve tried to smile at her organizational skills. Somehow, she just couldn’t manage it.

So she put her head down on the desk and cried.

She couldn’t find it.

Genevieve paced back and forth in front of her fireplace, frantically gulping down spoonfuls of double fudge ice cream. Her spoon came up empty and she cursed the container for being so small. She set her spoon on the bare mantel, then tossed the carton into the fire and watched the flames consume it. It was going up in smoke just like her life.

She rubbed her hands over her face, trying to concentrate. She had had a nap that afternoon, so weariness wasn’t an excuse. It was just hard to think with the rain beating so incessantly on the windows. It was unseasonably cold for September, as if a sinister force had taken control of the elements and was now taking delight in torturing the poor mortals doomed to walking the streets. She would be out walking the streets if she didn’t do something very soon. If she could just find that damned business card, and if it weren’t too late to say yes, she might be able to pull herself out of her current mess.

She looked around her living room. How hard could it be to find one simple piece of paper? Her furniture was gone, sold to provide refunds for incensed clients. Her office junk was piled in one corner of the room. Her Dreams Restored store-front sign leaned drunkenly against one wall. She turned away. Even though it had been over two months since she had closed up her shop, it still hurt to think about it.

She had to find Bryan McShane’s business card. It was her only hope. She was broke, furnitureless, and losing weight by the day. With any luck, Mr. McShane had been vacationing all summer and hadn’t been able to find anyone else to give that pile of stones to. She was more than ready to take it now. She had no more family, no more business and definitely no more money. Moving to England was sounding better by the minute. She could learn to like tea.

She’d thrown the card into the recycle pile, she knew that much. But there were no less than two dozen piles of papers occupying various bits of floor. Her mother would have been appalled, but at least the piles were neatly stacked. Genevieve had had a lot of time on her hands, and it showed.

She started on a pile near the doorway, ignoring the panic that threatened to overwhelm her. The card could be found. It would just take patience.

An hour and two piles later, she began to wonder if it would take more patience than she would ever have in a lifetime.

Three hours and four piles later, she knew it wasn’t going to take patience, it was going to take a miracle.

By dawn, she began to wonder if even a miracle would cut it. She had looked through every stack of paperwork in her house. She had checked the recycle pile near her phone and come up with nothing. She had checked the pile of cards by the sink, almost certain she would find Mr. McShane’s card there. Surely she wouldn’t have thrown it out. When would she have had time, with all the disasters going on around her?

By noon, her place was a wreck. She was a wreck. For the life of her, she couldn’t remember the name of Mr. McShane’s firm. She had called a London operator looking for his home number, but with no success.

She had blown it.

What she needed was brain food. She unearthed her change jar and started counting out pennies. If she could just come up with enough for a pint of chocolate-chip cookie dough ice cream, she was sure things would look better. At least she would have enough energy for another round of searching.

She had one dollar and six cents. Hardly enough for a good-size candy bar, much less gourmet ice cream.

She started to cry.

The phone started to ring.

Genevieve ignored it. It was probably another attorney calling on the off chance there was any meat left on the bones. She was sorry to disappoint him. If someone was keeping score, they would probably have shown it as: Dragons, a bunch; Buchanan, nothing. Oh, where was her handsome knight on his black destrier?

And still the phone rang. Maybe selling her answering machine hadn’t been such a good idea. Call screening came in handy now and then.

She finally gave in. She could always hang up.

“Hello?” she croaked.

“Miss Buchanan?”

Genevieve jumped to her feet

“Mr. McShane?” she squeaked.

“Yes. I was in town and I was wondering if we could perhaps meet again?”

She laughed out loud. “When?”

“Um, yes, well, are you free for dinner?”

Now, that was a question for the annals. With only a soggy head of lettuce and some ketchup in her refrigerator, she was certainly free for dinner. All right, so Bryan McShane wasn’t exactly her ideal knight; he would certainly do in a pinch.

“How about a late lunch?” She didn’t care if she sounded desperate. Whatever he had to offer had to be better than what she had right then, which was nothing. “Say, in ten minutes?”

“If you’re certain you’ll have time—”

“Oh, I’m sure. Do you know where the China Bowl is?”

He did. Genevieve was still laughing when she hung up the phone.

Miracles never ceased.

Twenty minutes later she faced the attorney again, this time over an abundance of Chinese food.

“Well?” she asked with her mouth half-full. It would have been completely full had she been shoveling in the food as fast as she wanted to. What a nice change from generic macaroni and cheese.

“Seakirk. I’ve come to see if by chance you might have changed your mind.”

That was what she wanted to hear.

“I have,” Genevieve said. “I’ll go.”

Mr. McShane’s eyes went wide with surprise. “You will?”

“Yes. It’s a godsend.”

He looked around the room furtively before he leaned for-ward and spoke. “You know, Miss Buchanan, you needn’t accept if you don’t wish to.”

“How bad can it be?” she said with a smile, surprised at his change of heart. “You said the castle was in good shape. Don’t you want me to accept?”

‘To be honest,” he said, lowering his voice to a whisper, “the castle does possess an odd quirk or two.”

Genevieve felt a grin tug at her mouth. “Are you telling me it’s haunted?”

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

She laughed. “Don’t worry, Mr. McShane. I won’t sue you if I hear anything go bump in the night.”

Mr. McShane looked like he wanted to have the entire affair over with as soon as possible. She took pity on him and called for boxes for the enormous amount of food they hadn’t consumed. Genevieve almost felt guilty about having ordered half the menu, then stopped herself. Her dinner companion was probably charging his entire trip to her inheritance anyway.

Mr. McShane looked shocked once they reached her apartment and he saw the lack of furniture in her living room. His gasp was particularly audible when she put away the food and he saw the bareness of her refrigerator. Genevieve smiled.

“You see, Mr. McShane, it is a godsend. Now, how soon should I come over?”

“How soon can you be ready?” he asked nervously.

“A week.” She had renewed her passport two weeks before. It had seemed nothing but wishful thinking at the time.

He crooked his finger between his collar and his neck and tugged. “If you’re sure …”

“I am,” she nodded firmly.

“Very well, then. A ticket will be waiting for you at the airport. I will return to England and assure that all is in readiness.”

Genevieve saw him out, then locked the door behind him. She waited until she heard his footsteps recede before she broke into an impromptu celebration dance. She danced her way back into the kitchen to check out what was left of the fortune cookies. Emptying the bag onto the counter produced one cookie and ten one-hundred-dollar-bills. Now, that was chivalry for you.

She cracked open the cookie and popped half of it into her mouth before she unrolled the small slip of paper.

Beware of ghosts sending gifts.

She laughed out loud. Obviously they had meant, “Beware of Greeks bearing gifts.” An oddly coincidental mistake, but a mistake nonetheless. Bryan McShane was certainly no ghost. She pointedly ignored the tingle that went down her spine. Castles possessed quirks. She didn’t care if hers possessed a basement full of vampire-filled coffins.

She had just inherited a castle of her very own.

It was a dream come true.

Bryan McShane made his way down the hallway to the study, cursing weakly under his breath. Of course, he had to be the one to come to Seakirk. It wasn’t enough that he had taken his life in his hands to travel to the States. Of course not. Now he was taking his life in his hands a second time to give the current tidings to Maledica’s newest client. There wasn’t enough sterling lying about to compensate for this kind of distress. He fished his rumpled handkerchief out of his pocket and mopped his brow, trying to get hold of himself. Ten minutes and he would be back in his car and on his way. He could last ten more minutes.

His timid knock was answered only by a gruff command to enter. He entered hesitantly and looked at the television that dominated most of one wall. American football players were grunting and snarling as they fought for territory, their glories and failures portrayed vividly, thanks to the satellite dish on the battlements.

“They fight like nuns, don’t you think?” a deep voice demanded.

“Aye, my lord,” Bryan squeaked, finding, as usual, that his voice did not work properly in the presence of the admitted lord of Seakirk.

“Well, don’t just stand there and shake, man. What are the tidings?”

“She’s on her way, my lord. She should be here the first of next week.”

The television flicked off and Bryan’s client stood and faced him. Bryan never could get over how tall the man was, nor how intimidating. It wasn’t just the coldness of the pale green eyes, nor the intimidating frown that usually sat on the brow. It wasn’t even the rippling muscles that cloth couldn’t conceal, or the hands that could have easily broken a man in two. No, it was the mocking smile. It was a dangerous smile, lacking any semblance of warmth whatsoever. When the man smiled, Bryan wanted to run for cover.

“I trust you will see to the necessary details for Worthington?”

Worthington was an elderly gentleman who possessed the dubious title of steward. Bryan wouldn’t have traded places with him for any money.

“Aye, my lord. I’ll see to it first thing.”

“And you’ve paid yourself?”

“Aye, my lord,” he said, looking anywhere but at his client. “And not a pence over what is due me.”

“I never thought you would. Your fee is exorbitant, but I can’t argue with the results you’ve produced. I feel certain I will have further need of your firm’s assistance. I trust I may reach you at the office in London?”

“Of course, my lord. I am always at your service.”

Only a grunt answered him, and the television flicked back on. The man lowered himself with feline grace into the chair and propped his feet up on the stool in front of him. Bryan knew he had been dismissed.

Perhaps the entire episode wouldn’t have seemed out of the ordinary, but Kendrick of Artane was not an ordinary man. No, he wasn’t ordinary at all.

He was a ghost.

Chapter Three

Genevieve was, quite frankly, overwhelmed. They had been on the grounds a good fifteen minutes before she even saw the castle. When she finally caught sight of it rising up in the distance, she squeezed her hands tightly together to control the urge to hop up and down in Mr. McShane’s front seat. It was even better than she had expected!

If she hadn’t known better, she would have sworn she was on her way to Camelot. An outer wall complete with towers, battlements and a drawbridge enclosed a taller inner wall. The castle itself rose up austere and forbidding. In contrast, a black-and-silver flag flew merrily in the breeze from atop the tallest tower of the keep. She half expected to see mounted knights come thundering across the grass toward them, demanding to know who dared trespass on Seakirk’s soil. Seakirk. Even the name made her smile.

The drawbridge was lowered as they approached the first wall. Not a soul was in sight. Genevieve certainly didn’t believe in ghosts, but she found the lack of personnel a bit unnerving just the same.

“There is some sort of staff here, isn’t there?” she asked casually.

Bryan swallowed. “Of course. Miss Buchanan. Excuse me, Lady Buchanan.”

“Oh, I don’t think I have the right to lay claim to that title.”

“I assure you, my research was meticulous. You are the last surviving direct descendant of Richard of Seakirk, a thirteenth-century earl. You have every right to claim the title and all that goes with it.”

All that goes with it

? Why did that sound so ominous?

Genevieve pushed aside her ridiculous thoughts and concentrated on what was going on around her. Once the draw-bridge was lowered, a metal grate was raised and they drove across the bridge and through what had originally been the gatehouse. Barbican, Genevieve reminded herself. Might as well keep the jargon straight. The passageway soon opened onto an extensive piece of land surrounding the inner walls.

They approached another gatehouse and another metal grate was raised.

“Portcullis,” Bryan identified.

“I know,” she said, her eyes already glued to the courtyard now visible through the thickly walled tunnel. “I know a bit about medieval architecture,” she said, modestly. It was an understatement, of course, but there was no use in bragging. Mr. McShane looked like he was ready to break down and bawl as it was; a blow to his ego might just push him over the edge.

The castle was a mixture of the best designs of medieval engineering. The main building was no less than four stories high with rounded towers on each corner. There were only a few windows on the lower two floors but the upper floors more than made up for that lack. Genevieve could hardly wait to see what sort of window seats were set behind those beautifully beveled panes of glass.

There was a large garden to her right, full of the very last flowers of summer and numerous large trees. It did seem a bit overgrown though, and Genevieve could hardly wait to get her hands into it.

The courtyard leading to the castle was inlaid with pale ivory-colored stone. It was obviously very old but also very well cared for. She crawled out of the car in a daze, shivering at what she almost passed up. The entire estate was in excel-lent condition, and it was hers. Unbelievable. She had a hard time suppressing the urge to leap from the car and do a little gratitude dance right there on the front steps.

Bryan was out and fishing for her baggage in the trunk al-most before the car had stopped moving. He deposited her pair of suitcases on the wide steps leading up to the hall.

“Best of luck to you,” he said, then hopped in his car.

“But—”

He waved, then beat a hasty retreat.

Genevieve stood on the steps and watched him go, feeling decidedly uncomfortable. It was something akin to what she’d felt when her mother dropped her off for kindergarten for the first time, but this was much worse. What if no one were home? Worse yet, what if there were bodies inside, but they were dead?

She took a deep breath and turned to face the door. She had to get control of her imagination before it ran away with her and didn’t come back. This was her home. She had every right to knock on the door and expect a normal, everyday person to open it and welcome her in.

Before her knuckles made contact with the wood, the door was opened, leaving her standing face-to-face with a dour-looking butler. He could have been none other than the butler. He wore a dark suit with a crisp white shirt and a prim black bow tie. His white hair was trimmed neatly above his ears, and not a hair was out of place. She was certain he would accept nothing less. She laughed before she could stop herself.

“Oh, you’re perfect.”

He didn’t blink. “Lady Buchanan, I presume,” he said drolly.

Genevieve felt her smile fade. So the help wasn’t exactly gushing over her at present. It was probably considered impolite to gush on the first meeting. She nodded and held out her hand.

“You have the last name right at least. And you are?”

“Worthington, my lady,” he said, ignoring her hand. ‘The steward.”

“Ah, the steward,” she said wisely. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“No doubt, my lady,” he said dryly as he moved past her to gather up her baggage.

“No, I can—”

The words died on her lips at the look he gave her. She felt like a child who had just screamed an obscenity in Sunday school. Obviously Worthington took his job very seriously.

“This way, my lady,” he said, moving past her and heading into the hall.

She followed him inside and then stopped short at the sight that greeted her. A shiver of delight went through her. The great hall. All her castles in the boxes that would catch up with her eventually hadn’t done justice to the kind of room she was seeing. It was at least two stories high with enormous fireplaces on either side. Enormous perhaps wasn’t the word for them. She could have thrown half a tree on each and still have had room to roast a boar or two.

Stone floors lay under her feet, floors that would have been strewn with hay in the Middle Ages but presently had been swept and polished until they positively gleamed. Tapestries bearing medieval designs and stretching almost from floor to ceiling hung on the walls. They were either authentic or very impressive replicas. She was walking toward one wall, her hand outstretched to touch the fabric, when Worthington cleared his throat imperiously. She looked longingly at the wall, then at her steward. He looked a bit impatient. Well, the tapestries would keep. It was probably close to time for tea, and she had the feeling Worthington was a stickler about serving on time. She obediently followed him up the steps.

The staircase was a winding one, just as she always imagined Camelot would have had. She trailed her fingers over the cold stone as she followed Worthington’s lead. The stairs opened up onto a long hallway. Lights in the shape of torches gave relief from the darkness. She found she couldn’t keep the disbelieving smile off her face. With a little imagination, she could believe she really was the lady of the keep, spending her afternoons sewing with her ladies in her solar, waiting for her warrior husband to return from his adventures and shower her with hard-earned spoils.

“Your room, my lady,” Worthington announced, setting the bags down in front of a door and turning the knob.

Genevieve stepped in front of him and peeked inside. Then she gasped. It was the most horrific thing she had ever seen in her life. The room was wall-to-wall Louis the Fourteenth, complete with a gilded birdcage in the far comer. The carpeting was pink, matching the pink chairs, pink bedclothes and pink wallpaper. She felt as though she had just eaten far too much cotton candy.

She took a step back into the hallway and shook her head.

“I can’t do it.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The room,” she said. “It’s awful. I’ll stay anywhere else: the guest room, the servants’ quarters, the cellar. Anywhere but in this bedroom.”

One silver eyebrow went up in surprise. “It doesn’t suit you?”

“It nauseates me.”

The other eyebrow went up to join the first. “Indeed. Then perhaps you would care to have a look at the other bedchambers? We have several you could choose from.”

She nodded. He showed her the room next to the first one. It was done in the same period furniture, only this time in blue. Visions of Smurfs dressed in French finery chasing her in her dreams made her shake her head quickly.

The next room was a dreadful combination of yellows and oranges. The knickknacks and baubles covering every avail-able surface made her flinch. She suppressed a powerful urge to hurry into the room and dust, then begged Worthington to show her the barn. He ushered her down the hall to the last two guest rooms. They were no less disgusting than any of the others. Genevieve threw up her hands in despair.

“But they are all so gaudy,” she exclaimed.

What might have been a glint of approval appeared in his eye.

“My lady, each of the past five mistresses of Seakirk decorated a different chamber. You don’t find anything redeeming about any of them?”

“I’m sure the ladies were quite nice but their taste in furnishings was atrocious,” she said firmly. “The only thing redeeming about any of those rooms is the fact that I have the money to do them over again, which I fully intend to do. Now, show me the stables. It won’t kill me to sleep out there for a few nights.”

“The stables would be too cold for you, my lady,” Worthington said with a thoughtful frown. “Perhaps I could pre-pare one of the servants’ rooms for a night or—”

Genevieve walked away before he could finish his sentence. Worthington had been studiously avoiding a door further down the hallway and she wanted to know why. Though it was probably nothing but a storage room, it couldn’t possibly be as tacky as what she had seen so far. Being rolled up in a blanket for a night or two wouldn’t be so bad.

“Lady Buchanan,” Worthington said quickly, “you cannot…”

She turned and lifted one eyebrow superciliously, determined to start things off on the right foot in her new home. Worthington was her butler, not her boss. Though he’d spent the last half hour ordering her around, he wasn’t going to get away with it any longer. It was best he learn right off that she wasn’t the kind of girl to be walked all over.

It didn’t matter that she’d just made that decision. She was head of her home and by golly her butler was going to realize that.

“I cannot what?” she asked in her most imperious tone, trying to imagine how Queen Elizabeth I would have said those words.

“My lady,” he pleaded, “you will detest that room. I’m sure of it.”

“That is for me to decide.”

“I beseech you—”

She was already turning the handle as the words left his lips.

Worthington, her fine resolves and the fact that she needed air to survive were all completely forgotten in the magic of what she saw.

It was the most amazing bedroom she had ever seen, and she had not only seen but decorated some doozies. A massive hearth dominated one entire wall to her right; it was easily as large as the fireplaces downstairs. Huge windows with heavy drapes flanked one side of the room. An enormous wooden desk sat under one of the windows; with any luck that window would overlook the garden. Draperies had been pulled back from another window to reveal the most comfortable-looking window seat she had ever laid eyes on. She could hardly stop herself from running over and curling up on the spot.

The bed was a huge four-poster affair, complete with bed-curtains. Maybe the tapestries downstairs were replicas; the curtains surrounding this bed were not. Without even stepping any closer, she could see that the cloth was exceedingly old, yet in astonishingly good condition. All in all, Genevieve felt as though she had stepped back in time hundreds of years.

“I love it,” she breathed.

“But my lady, ’tis very drafty here,” Worthington said. “You’ll catch a chill.”

“The fire will be more than adequate,” she said. “Worthington, the room is perfect.” She turned a brilliant smile on the steward, all her former irritation with him forgotten. “You did this on purpose, didn’t you? You know, I doubt I would have appreciated this as much if I hadn’t been treated to the other monstrosities first. Thank you so much.” She reached out and gave his hand a grateful squeeze, picked up her bags and closed the door in his face.

She turned and leaned back against the door. It was perfect. And it was hers.

If she’d had any more tears to shed, she would have, but they would have been ones of happiness. This bedroom and this marvelous, magical keep were worth every single moment of anguish she had gone through over the past three months.

It was worth it all.

She was home.

All Worthington wanted to do was hasten downstairs, sequester himself in the wine cellar and drink himself into oblivion. Unfortunately that simply would not do. His Lordship would have to be told and soon, before he discovered the truth himself.

He sighed deeply and turned back down the hall. The steps to the third floor had never seemed so steep or so many before. He dragged his feet all the way down the hall to Lord Seakirk’s study, then stopped and knocked smartly.

“Come in and be quick about it,” Kendrick bellowed.

Worthington sighed and cast a pleading look heavenward before he entered the room. Kendrick was pacing back and forth, his hands clasped behind his back.

“Well?” he demanded impatiently. “Which chamber did she choose, old man? Hopefully the blue one. I’ve always wanted to scare a woman witless in a blue chamber.”

“Nay, my lord, she did not choose the blue room.”

Kendrick folded his arms over his chest and smiled grimly. “Tell me then that she chose the yellow bauble room. Lady Emily worked so hard on that room before her untimely demise.”

Worthington couldn’t help his sigh. “My lord Kendrick, I think perhaps you should reconsider.”

Kendrick frowned in displeasure. “Ridding myself of this final Buchanan is my only hope, as well you know.”

“She’s not like the others.”

“She’s a Buchanan. Nothing more needs to be said.”

“She has spirit.”

“And she no doubt looks just like Matilda.”

Worthington shook his head. “She doesn’t. She has dark hair and the most beautiful pair of hazel eyes I have ever seen. She’s certainly not a woman you’d want to kill, not that you’ve ever been able to do it in the past.”

Kendrick’s scowl darkened considerably. “I see she’s al-ready begun to work her magic on you.” He strode to the window and looked out. “All the Buchanan women were bitches, beginning with that first bitch I almost wed. It may well be that murder won’t be necessary, but I will have what I want from her.” He turned around and pinned Worthington with a chilly glance. “Now, tell me which out of the five chambers she selected. I’ve no more head for riddles today.”

Worthington realized the futility of arguing. Kendrick was incapable of listening to reason when it came to Matilda or any of her hapless descendants. Worthington had long since given up trying to change his lord. His father hadn’t been able to do it, nor had any of his father’s fathers.

Worthington turned away with a sigh. “She took none of them, my lord,” he threw over his shoulder as he pulled the study door open.

Time passed in silence for several moments, long enough for Worthington to descend to the second floor.

Kendrick’s shout of fury could be heard all over the keep.

Worthington smiled to himself as he sauntered down the passageway. Perhaps the young lord of Seakirk would think twice about killing the girl if she were to bleed all over his own bed.

It was midnight when Kendrick appeared in her chamber. His chamber, he thought grimly. Genevieve was reading by the light of a candle. Bloody romantic. There was a lamp right by her bed if she had just taken the time to look.

He stood in the shadows and gave a last thought to what he was about to do. Aye, it was the only way. He planned to see the last of the Buchanan bloodline either gone, insane or dead by the end of the week. In truth it mattered not to him how the deed was accomplished, though the thought of having a bit of revenge for his trouble was tempting. If he tried hard enough, he could likely pretend that Genevieve’s screams were actually Matilda’s.

He took another look at his ensemble. Perhaps he could have been more clever but the arrow was a nice touch. It was a nasty-looking bolt that jutted straight out from his chest. The blood he was drenched in was always good for a throaty scream or two. Aye, it was creative enough for the first fright. He smiled darkly at the thought, imagining young Mistress Buchanan’s bloodcurdling shriek and what was sure to be an abrupt flight from his bed.

Perhaps she would scream all the way down the passageway, through the great hall and out the front door. He’d parked the car right there with the keys in it, for just such an occasion. Once she had fled the keep, he would call Bryan McShane and have him seek her out with the proper documents to sign. She would be more than willing to sign a statement saying she had seen the castle and did not want it. It would be perfectly legal and perfectly final.

And then, thanks to a meticulously forged birth certificate, the keep would be his, as it should have been seven hundred years ago.

And then he would be free.

Genevieve snuggled deeper into the pillows and held the book closer to the flame of the candle. Reading by candlelight might have been romantic but it was certainly hard on the eyes. She smiled anyway. So what if she got a headache? It was the principle of the thing that counted. This was how she’d imagined it; sitting in her medieval castle in her medieval bedroom, reading by candlelight. All she needed was a medieval manuscript to make things feel completely authentic.

Her first day at Seakirk had gone off without a hitch. Of course, there had been that hair-raising bellow during the afternoon, but Worthington had assured her it was only the pipes creaking. After being grateful that some efficient soul had actually installed pipes, she’d made Worthington promise to call the plumber first thing in the morning. Too many hints by Bryan McShane had made her a bit jumpy. The fewer things that went bump in her home, the better she’d like it.

Out of the comer of her eye, she saw a shadow shift by the hearth. Instantly her head jerked up of its own accord. She let out a shaky breath. Nothing. She pushed her bangs back off her face. Tricky little beasts. It was amazing how they danced around and made the skittish think they were seeing things they really weren’t.

The candle flame began to flicker wildly, as if someone were blowing softly on it. A thrill of fear went through her, then she expelled her breath with a great whoosh.

“Don’t be stupid,” she said aloud. “It’s just a draft.”

Just saying the words made her feel a hundred percent better. The flame stopped flickering and she relaxed, willing her heart to stop thumping so loudly against her chest. Worthington had been right about the draftiness. She’d have a closer look at the room by the light of day and see just where the breeze was coming from. No sense in catching her death.

Thump

.

Worthington was puttering around in the kitchen again. She’d have to talk to him first thing about the hours he kept. A chill crept down her spine like a spider, making her jerk nervously.

Thump

.

Was he cleaning the other rooms? At midnight? Oh, yes, she’d chat with him very first thing.

Thump

. Grumble.

Grumble?

She wasn’t going to look up. It could have been a very large rat or a very large creature from a B movie. Either way, she had no desire to make its acquaintance. She stuck her nose back in her book doggedly.

Thump. Grumble

.

Oh God

, she prayed, her palms suddenly slick with sweat, let me be dreaming. A quirk? Had Bryan McShane actually said the castle possessed an odd quirk or two? What an unfortunate understatement!

The creature cleared its throat pointedly.

Genevieve looked up. Had she been capable of it, she would have screamed her head off. Instead, she could only squeak.

It was huge. It was drenched in blood. It was glaring evilly at her. It reached its arms out and continued its relentless approach, just as Frankenstein had done in every one of his feature films. Genevieve would have gasped with horror at the arrow protruding from the monster’s chest but she just didn’t have any spare breath. She shrank back against the headboard and pulled the sheet up to her chin. No, this wasn’t a movie. This wasn’t the vampire show she had watched in grade school, sitting close enough to the television to change the channel when things got too hot to handle. This was real and she was going to die.

The creature stopped just short of the bed and waved its arms menacingly. Genevieve didn’t think twice. She flung away the covers and bolted from the bed to the door. The lock slipped under her trembling fingers as if it had been greased.

“Begone, wench, if your life means aught!” a deep, wraith-like voice bellowed from directly behind her.

Genevieve shrieked and jerked open the door. Her bare feet slapped against the stone as she fled down the hallway, but she didn’t notice either the pain or the coldness. She had just seen a ghoul and there was no way in hell she was going to spend another night under the same roof with it. First she’d find a nice comfortable inn, then she’d track Bryan McShane down and kill him for lying. Quirk? Sweet Mary, it was a ghost!

She pounded ungracefully down the winding staircase as fast as she dared, tripped on the last step and stubbed her toe. The pain made her gasp but she kept on limping, right to the front door.

“Lady Genevieve, good heavens!” Worthington’s voice echoed in the great hall. His voice startled her so badly that she shrieked again. “What are you thinking to be up without your slippers on?”

Genevieve struggled with the lock on the hall door.

“Got to get out,” she panted. “Ghost… upstairs …”

“Now, my lady, you’re overwrought,” Worthington said soothingly. “Come let me prepare a bit of tea. A dash of brandy added to it will be just the thing to calm you.”

Genevieve shook her head vigorously. “Not… on your life. I’m not staying . .. another minute … in this place.”

Worthington put his hand over hers and stilled her frantic movements. “My lady, you cannot go out without your shoes. And you cannot go out tonight.”

She slowly realized she was not going to get the door unlocked without help or reason, neither of which she possessed at the moment. She stared up at the ceiling and let out her breath slowly.

“I can’t go back upstairs,” she whispered.

“Of course not. We’re going to the kitchen. Come out of the hall, my lady. ‘Tis a drafty place.”

Genevieve couldn’t make herself release the door. Letting go of the cold metal of the bolt felt too much like letting go of her only hope of escape.

“He tried to kill me, Worthington.”

“Come have some tea, my lady. It will help you sleep.”

“I don’t want to sleep.”

“You’re overwrought from your travels and the excitement. Tea will soothe you.” He looked at her expectantly, then gestured with his head toward the doorway near the back of the hall, as if the very motion would induce her movement.

“My lady?” he prompted, when she didn’t budge.

She sighed and nodded. With an effort she pried her fingers from the lock. She followed her butler across the great hall and into the kitchen, then sat and waited. She watched Worthington heat the water, steep the brew, then add a jigger or two of brandy, all without really paying much attention. All she could see was the huge blood-covered monster upstairs, the one who had come at her with death in his eyes. Without thinking, she drained the cup Worthington had set down before her, then she gasped and coughed at the burning of her throat.

“More,” she rasped. Anything to help her forget.

Two cups later, she felt much better. And she was starting to feel very foolish. Ghosts weren’t real. It had been her imagination. After all, she did have a graphic one. And what had she been reading? Night of the Bloody Ghouls. It was no wonder she’d been spooked.

“I’ll see you to your room,” Worthington offered, standing.

“Thanks,” Genevieve smiled, but her smile was weak. Talking brave and being brave were two entirely different things.

“I think we’ll need to hire a carpenter,” she continued as she forced herself to walk from the kitchen. “The room is drafty.”

“Of course,” Worthington nodded.

Genevieve walked with him up the stairs and down the hall to her room. No, she didn’t want to go back in there, but what was she supposed to do? Tell her butler she’d just seen a ghost and would he mind sitting in a chair next to her bed and playing bodyguard? Genevieve felt foolish enough after her ridiculous flight downstairs. There was no use in making a bigger spectacle of herself.

After only a moment’s hesitation, she pushed open the door and peeked inside. Empty. She couldn’t suppress her sigh of relief.

“A good night to you, my lady.”

“You too,” Genevieve responded, lingering by the doorway. Suddenly the thought of giving up company wasn’t appealing in the least. “Worthington …”

“You are safe here,” Worthington reassured her. “Perfectly safe. Sleep is what you need, my lady. Jet lag is hard on a body.”

That was what she wanted to hear. He was probably right. Jet lag was causing her hallucinations. She smiled, shut the door and walked back over to the bed. The room looked perfectly normal. The candle on the nightstand burned just as brightly as it had before and cast just as soft a light over the room. A look around—a casual look, of course—revealed that everything was still in its rightful place.

Genevieve crawled beneath the blankets and snuggled down, pulling the comforter up to her ears. Perfectly safe. Nothing in the room but furniture and her imagination.

“I’m perfectly safe,” she said aloud. “Nothing will harm me.”

The candle flame on the nightstand extinguished itself abruptly.

“Don’t be so certain, wench.”

Genevieve shrieked and pulled the covers over her head. She curled up in a little ball and prayed for a sudden loss of consciousness.

The deep voice echoed in her mind again and again, reminding her that there was more than furniture on the other side of the down comforter she held over her head like a shield. Whatever was out there was big, bloody and bothered.

And it wanted her dead.

Chapter Four

Genevieve woke with a gasp. She lay perfectly still. When She heard nothing but her own pounding heart, she gingerly wiggled the fingers of her right hand. They worked. She didn’t feel any pain from gaping wounds, so it was a safe bet that she wasn’t bleeding to death.

So he hadn’t killed her. Why? Had the ghoul taken pity on her, or did he intend to frighten her into a heart attack? It would have been a clean homicide. Or was it ghoulicide? She managed a weak smile at her own cleverness. Too bad the world would never know just how scintillating she had been because the ghost was probably waiting for her to show her face so he could decapitate her.

Or was he merely nocturnal? Well, that would certainly be true to beastly form, wouldn’t it? There was no telling what time it was unless she poked her head out from under the covers, and she wasn’t quite ready to do that yet.

She needed a plan. To-do lists always made her feel better, even if she ignored them the split second after she’d made them. First on the list: pray it was morning, then run and open the windows to shed some light on the situation. Second, face whatever still awaited her in her room (either the creature or the gory mess he had left behind). Third, run like hell down-stairs and beg Worthington to let her sleep on his floor for the rest of her life. Four, forget all three, run out the front door, down the road and never set foot inside Seakirk’s gates again.

No, Number Four was not an option. This was her home. She wasn’t about to walk away from it.

Without giving herself time to think any longer, she threw back the covers and bolted from the bed to the window. Her hands trembled as she jerked open the drapes. She’d never been so glad for the sight of sunlight in her life.

She put her hands on the warm panes of glass and took several deep breaths. How bad could her floor look? She’d get Worthington to help her scrub the blood off. At least the floor was made of wood. Getting that kind of stain out of carpet would have been murder.

Murder? What a poor choice of words.

She turned slowly, dreading coming face-to-face with death. Instead, she came face-to-face with her bedroom. She frowned. It certainly didn’t look any different than it had yesterday. She crossed the room to the side of her bed where the creature had been. Perfectly clean. She dropped to her knees and smoothed her hand over the floor. Nothing. No blood, no guts, no gore. Absolutely nothing.

She sat down with a thump. This was nuts. She had seen a zombie/ghoul last night and he had frightened her silly. She jumped to her feet, prepared to do battle. There had to be some evidence left behind: a scuff mark, a bit of torn clothing, a drop of blood.

Thirty fruitless minutes later, she conceded the match. There was nothing. Had she dreamed it all? She walked back over to the window and sank down on the window seat, letting the sight of the garden below soothe her. Too much television? Maybe it was dinner. Worthington had prepared a mousse of sinful richness for dessert and she had eaten two helpings of it. Maybe it was a sugar hallucination.

And maybe, she thought with a rueful smile, it was just her imagination playing tricks on her. Hadn’t she always been prone to nightmares as a child? Every monster she had ever seen in the movies or on television had always come back to haunt her at night. Last night was just a heck of a dream. It had to be a dream. Her castle was not haunted. She didn’t believe in ghosts.

Get a grip on yourself, Buchanan

, she chided sternly. Good grief, what a fool she’d made of herself. Worthington was probably making her an appointment at the local sanitarium right now. She couldn’t blame him. Hopefully in time he’d forget about it and chalk it up to jet lag and too many novels. That was certainly what she intended to do.

During a decadently long shower, she concentrated on her plans for the day. The sooner she catalogued the items in the other bedrooms, the sooner she could get rid of the furniture and do something different. Ideally, she wanted to find medieval replicas to use. Or perhaps she’d search out authentic pieces. Her bedroom was perfect and she wanted to redo the others in the same manner.

After all, when you’ve got a blank cheque, why not use it?

That evening Genevieve sat in the high-backed chair Worthington had pulled close to the hearth for her, and watched as her butler carefully laid several more pieces of wood on the fire. There was probably a cozier room than the immense great hall but she hadn’t had the time to find it during the day and, despite her earlier rationalizations about ghosts, she wasn’t about to look around at night. The huge hearth would keep her warm enough for now.

Worthington straightened and made her a small bow. “If there won’t be anything else … ?”

She sat up quickly. “Oh, don’t leave yet. Stay and enjoy the fire with me.”

“My lady, I wouldn’t presume—”

“Presume or you’re fired,” she answered, only half-teasing. She wasn’t ready to relinquish the comfort of human contact and she was willing to go to great lengths to make sure she kept it. Worthington only blinked a time or two before he obediently pulled up another chair and sat down to keep her company.

Actually, company hadn’t been her problem that day. An entire army of cleaning people had come in and scoured the castle from top to bottom. Worthington had overseen the activities with the skill of a garrison captain. The personnel from the village were quick and very thorough, working as if they couldn’t wait to get out. Genevieve hadn’t missed the pitying looks they had thrown her way. What did those looks mean? Did the villagers pity her for her newfound wealth? She had seen the bank records. All the zeros after that pound sign had made her positively dizzy. Whichever Buchanan had amassed that kind of staggering wealth had been one smart cookie.

Or did they pity her having such an immense home to look after? She’d only had time to go through the five monstrous bedchambers that afternoon but had the feeling the castle contained ten times that many rooms.

Or did they pity her for the fact that once the door to the great hall was locked, she probably didn’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell of getting out?

The hair on the back of her neck stood up and she squelched the urge to look over her shoulder or above her head. There was nothing in the house. Worthington didn’t look spooked. In fact, he looked positively serene sitting there with firelight glinting on his silver hair and a peaceful expression resting comfortably on his face.

“Worthington?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Have you noticed anything odd about the castle?”

“Odd?” he echoed, looking puzzled.

“Odd,” she repeated. “You know, as in strange. Unusual. Paranormal,” she threw in casually.

Worthington smiled blandly. “The castle does possess an odd quirk or two.”

“Quirk?” Why did everyone insist on using that word?

“My lady,” Worthington said gently, “this keep has been standing more or less in perfect condition since the Middle Ages. How could it not have acquired a bit of character along the way?”

Character. Of course. She should have seen that for herself. And so what if that character just happened to be in the form of a ghost? She could learn to live with it. And once it had accepted the fact that she wasn’t going anywhere, it could probably learn to live with her too. All things considered, it could turn into a rather amicable relationship. You don’t scare me and I won’t call in the paranormal squad to exorcise you. Sort of an unfriendly truce, but it might work.

Genevieve felt decidedly better. In fact, she felt so much better that she didn’t protest when Worthington stifled a yawn and begged to be excused. She waved him away good-naturedly and settled back to enjoy the fire. She pulled her legs up into the chair with her and wrapped her arms around her knees. Yes, this was the life.

Things would get even better when she finally discovered where her library was hiding. A full day of reading was sounding better all the time. It would be just the thing to cure her of the last traces of jet lag. She closed her eyes and smiled in anticipation. A full day of daydreaming of her wonderful castle and imagining that it contained a handsome, brave knight—

Thunk

!

Her eyes flew open. She scrambled over her chair, looking with alarm at what was quivering in front of her, only an inch away from where her toes had dangled off the edge of the seat.

It was a sword. A fat emerald gleamed in the hilt. And across the crossbar was engraved in medieval-looking letters:

ARTANE

“I’ll not miss my mark a second time,” a deep voice grated from behind her.

She whirled around, bumping her arm against the back of the chair in the process. The excruciating pain of smacking her funny bone was forgotten in her astonishment at what she saw.

He stood well over six feet, easily, weighing in at probably two hundred twenty-five, and those two hundred and twenty-five pounds were covered in impenetrable armor. A long, heavy broadsword was held in one hand, resting point down on the floor, while the blade of an axe winked in the light from the fire as it occupied his other hand.

It was her knight.

It was also her ghost.

She backed up sharply against the chair, a feeling of terror starting at her scalp and sweeping down to settle in her knees.

No, it wasn’t his size that terrified her, or his armor, or even his weapons.

It was the murderous look in his eye.

“Begone, wench!” he bellowed suddenly, raising the sword and holding it over his head.

Genevieve fled. She didn’t know what her direction was until she smacked her toe against the bottom step of the stone staircase. Not even the rush of pain stopped her. She blinked back tears and crawled frantically up the stairs, using her hands and feet both to help her in her flight.

An eternity passed before she reached the second floor. She whimpered in relief as she saw the light of the torches revealing nothing but the floor and the walls. He hadn’t followed her—

“Are you deaf, woman?” a disembodied voice demanded angrily from behind her. “I command you to leave!”

Genevieve shrieked, jumped to her feet and stumbled down the passageway. Suddenly, the lights went out. She lost her sense of direction and went down heavily to the floor. A brush of air went over her. She pulled her knees up under her, ducked her head and covered her neck with her hands. She could already feel the agony of cold steel against her flesh, severing bone and sinew, separating her head from her body.

It didn’t happen. She knelt there for several minutes, her heart pounding wildly against her ribs, her breath coming in gasps, waiting for death. It didn’t come. In fact, nothing was coming. No touch, no wound, no pain. Nothing.

Good lord, was she losing her mind? She had just seen him again, hadn’t she? And he was a ghost, wasn’t he? She lifted her head slowly and tried to make out the shadows in the gloom. It was impossible. She carefully inched to her right, holding out her hand until she made contact with the wall. Then she slowly rose to her feet. For several moments, she merely leaned back against the wall and drew breath. Who knew how long she would be around to enjoy the pleasure?

When she heard nothing else breathing in the hallway, she began to move to her right, in the direction she knew her room had to be.

“Damnation, wench, that is not the path to the door!”

Genevieve froze, waiting for the telltale whistling of the blade coming her way. Blades always whistled in the movies; they probably did the same thing in real life.

“To your left, demoiselle! Go to your left!”

He was really exasperated now.

“I can’t see anything,” she whispered.

The lights in the hallway came on and she gasped as she caught sight of the ghost leaning against the opposite wall, his arms crossed over his massive chest, a fierce frown of displeasure on his face. Good grief, how he must have intimidated others when he was alive! He lifted his right arm and pointed back down the hallway toward the stairs.

“That is the direction to take.”

Genevieve’s lips refused to form coherent sounds. Her mouth worked silently for several moments, eliciting a darker frown from her ghost.

“What?” he barked.

She gulped. Going down the stairs again was entirely out of the question. She’d fall and break her neck.

“Can you get through a locked door?” she blurted out in a sudden flash of inspiration.

His brows drew together so fiercely, they became a dark slash over his eyes. “I fail to see what that has to do with it.”

That was answer enough. Genevieve turned and sped down the hall in the direction opposite from where he wanted her to go. If he couldn’t get through a locked door, then that’s just what she’d put between them. In the morning she’d call the paranormal exterminators and have them come out right away. A ghost was just too much character for her keep. At this point, she much preferred dullness.

She’d almost reached her bedroom door when the ghost appeared before her, standing with his hands clenched in fists by his sides.

“Damnation, woman, I want you gone!” he thundered.

Genevieve skidded to a halt a hand’s breadth in front of him and then backed up a pace or two. At least he’d lost his sword and his axe somewhere downstairs. Now, if she could just distract him long enough to slip past him into the room …

“It’s k-kind of late to be g-going out,” she said, her teeth beginning to chatter.

The ghost scowled. He looked the faintest bit indecisive, then scowled some more.

“You’ll leave tomorrow?”

She nodded quickly.

He grunted. “Tomorrow then. At first light.”

“I’m not really a morning person—”

“At first light!” he bellowed.

“At first light,” she agreed quickly. “I’ll be there with bells on.” Now, just get out of my way and let me into my sanctuary.

The ghost vanished. Genevieve gaped for several minutes at the place where he’d been. Then she whirled around and looked behind her. The hallway was empty. She put her hand on the door, then stopped.

“You’re sure you’ll stay out of my room tonight?” she asked the empty air.

“The chamber is mine, wench!”

“Yours,” she corrected herself hastily. “Of course it’s yours. But you’ll leave me in peace tonight anyway, won’t you?”

A pause.

“Aye.” The grumble hung in the stillness of the hall.

“Thanks,” Genevieve whispered.

Only a dissatisfied grunt answered her.

She fled inside the room and locked the door. Then she leaned back against it and heaved a huge sigh of relief. Safe. Her door was locked and her ghost had promised to leave her alone. He would be as good as his word, she was sure of it. After all, a knight never lied.

She felt her knees give way and she sank to the floor, grateful it was solid underneath her. It was the only thing that had reacted appropriately that evening.

Before she knew it, she was crying. She looked up at the ceiling and let the tears slide down her face. Four months ago, she’d had a beautiful home, a wonderful view and a fabulous business. Now she had nothing. Less than nothing. She had acquired a perfect castle only to have it taken away from her. Her dream had been given to her, then ripped away mercilessly.

She drew her knees up and rested her forehead on them, her arms hanging limply by her side. What was it with life lately? Circumstances were completely out of her control. She had been controlled by outside events for weeks. And if outside forces weren’t browbeating her, everyone else certainly was. First her staff had left her high and dry with demands for severance. Then she’d been backed into a corner by her clients until she had no alternative but to allow Bryan McShane to dump her off in a drafty old castle with a bossy butler and a despotic ghost!

Her head came up sharply. Damn it, it was going to stop. She was sick to death of people telling her what to do, taking advantage of her good nature, leaving tread marks on the backs of her clothes. Genevieve jumped to her feet and began to pace, her affronted feelings boiling over into a fine, indignant rage. Worthington was not going to tell her what to eat anymore, or where to sleep, or when she would and would not have tea, and that damned ghost—well, he could take his autocratic self and go straight to hell!

Her pacing became more furious. How dare he try to throw her out of her own house! Whoever he was, he sure as hell wasn’t the direct descendant of Richard of Seakirk. The jerk was probably some ill-begotten stableboy with delusions of grandeur. Well, she’d show him a thing or two about who was boss! She almost wished he would appear again so she could give him a dressing-down he wouldn’t forget for the rest of his days. She’d had as much of his terrorizing as she was going to take. If he didn’t behave, she would take away all his weapons.

His other sword. She pulled up short at the thought. The sword still imbedded in the chair downstairs. It was probably too heavy to swing but having it in her possession instead of his might be a step in the right direction.

She returned to the door and put her ear to the wood. There was no sound in the hall. She unlocked the bedroom door and carefully opened it. It made no sound of protest. She peeked out into the corridor. The torches were out. Just as well. If she couldn’t see him, he couldn’t see her. With any luck at all, he was downstairs in the servants’ quarters giving Worthington a fright.

Genevieve scowled as she stepped out into the hall and shut the door behind her. Worthington and his character. The old busybody knew all about the damned ghost. Well, he’d have an earful first thing. Right after she told him she wasn’t going to have oatmeal for breakfast again. It was about time he be-came acquainted with the virtues of Pop Tarts.

The great hall was empty, except for the two chairs near the hearth. The fire had died down, almost far enough to not be any help at all in Genevieve’s search. She crossed the room mainly by feel and paused behind what had been Worthington’s chair earlier that evening and her mouth fell open.

The sword was gone.

She stepped forward and dropped to her knees, looking at the front of the wooden chair she’d occupied. She ran her hand over the place where her toes had been and her eyes widened in disbelief.

There was no mark. No indentation. No evidence that a heavy sword had been thrust into the timber.

She sat back on her heels, stunned. Though it was tempting to think her imagination was again playing tricks on her, she knew that wasn’t the answer. There had been a sword. She’d heard it being driven home and she’d seen the firelight flicker off the steel. She’d read the word ARTANE on the crossbar. But it was no longer there, nor was there any record of it having been there.

Suddenly, a most astonishing revelation occurred to her. The sword left no trace because the sword really hadn’t been there. It was something the ghost had conjured up to frighten her, just as he’d conjured himself up out of thin air.

He couldn’t hurt her.

Because he had nothing to hurt her with.

Genevieve wanted to laugh. And she would, just as soon as that damned ghost had received a healthy piece of her mind. She rose quickly and walked purposefully back up the stairs and down the hall to her bedroom. She saw nothing and heard nothing.

By the time she had locked the door behind her, she was seething. The hell he’d put her through! And with what? Imaginary toys.

Leave the castle? Ha. Not in this lifetime. It was her home and she wasn’t going to give it up to humor some foul-tempered jerk with no chivalry in his soul.

No, her ghost would just have to ingest a helping or two of humble pie, then learn to accept her. Because she wasn’t going anywhere.

Chapter Five.

Kendrick de Piaget, formerly the second son of the earl of Artane, lately the default lord of Seakirk, sat in his study with his feet up on the stool in front of him, stared at the television that dominated the facing wall and scowled. By the saints, he was going soft in the head! That was the only reason he had al-lowed Genevieve to stay the night. If he’d possessed even a smidgen of intelligence, he would have forced her to leave on the spot.

He mentally manipulated the electrical currents to change the channels, flipping through them with a speed that would have made a mortal dizzy. Damn, no American football. Not even any hockey. A bit of savagery would have soothed him immensely, but it was obviously not to be so. With a deep sigh, he flicked off the television and rose.

He made his way up the stairs and through the door to the battlements. In life, walking along the roof had always soothed him. In death, things were not so different. Despite the obvious differences, of course. In life, the sea breezes would have ruffled his hair, tugged at his cloak, slipped through the weave of his garments to caress his skin. He would have smelled the tang of salt in the air and felt the chill of the night wind. He would have tasted the wine from dinner on his tongue and savored the fullness in his belly. And his body might have craved a different kind of pleasure, something that any number of his father’s serving wenches would have been happy to help him with. Aye, in life, this kind of evening could have finished most pleasantly.

In death, there was nothing. No use of the senses his strong body had provided him with for over thirty years; no sense of taste, of smell, of touch. Death was a void, an empty place, a cage that had tormented him for seven centuries. Not even the full use of his mind and its strange powers made up for the simpler, more prosaic blessings his body had once furnished.

Soon. Soon Genevieve would leave, the deed to the castle would be in his name and he would be free to stop his interminable haunting and pass on to the other side, no longer bound by the chains of earth, no longer bound by the curse Matilda had muttered over him as he lay dying in Seakirk’s dungeon. The castle would finally be his and he would leave it willingly. He was so very tired of living yet not living.

And he was weary of the bitterness. In life he had been a fairly agreeable sort, as agreeable as a warrior could be while spending so many years killing others to save his own sweet neck. He’d never lacked companionship at night when he wished for it; surely that said something about his character. A pity all that charm and gallantry had disappeared with a single bolt from a crossbow.

God, how he despised Richard and Matilda! And of the pair, he loathed Matilda the more. The witch. Scheming, conniving little harlot with her greedy outstretched hands. Kendrick swore harshly. Aye, it was because of her that he had become so acrid in his ways. In life he never would have raised a hand against a woman, nor used one ill. It made him slightly sick inside to think of the terror he had caused poor Mistress Buchanan. What he had been reduced to!

He forced a frown to his face. He’d had no choice. It had been instantly obvious to him that she couldn’t be driven daft. She certainly possessed a constitution much stronger than any of her ancestors. Frightening her had been his only recourse. Regrettable, but necessary.

Odd how he had never suffered such pangs of remorse with any other Buchanan.

He started to walk before that thought had any chance to bloom into further speculation. In a few hours, she would be gone. He would have Worthington call Master McShane and have him bring up the proper documents. Then Kendrick could lie down and sleep forever. The very thought brought tranquillity to his heart. Oh, how very tired he was of haunting!

He walked until darkness began to yield the skies to the faint light of dawn. Suddenly he was overcome by a feeling of weariness, not of the mind but of the body. But he didn’t have a physical body; how in the world could he be tired? The only time weariness ever tormented him was when he made the effort of trying to move something from the physical world. Once he’d tried to use the telephone. Simply lifting the receiver had taken him an hour, then he’d been in bed for a week trying to recover from the exertion. He hadn’t been desperate enough to try the like again.

Perhaps a small rest wasn’t such a poor idea. Of course his bedchamber was forbidden him at the moment, but there was that comfortable table downstairs in the wine cellar. Aye, that was the place for him. It would also give him ample opportunity to see if Worthington was imbibing more of that Gascony vintage than was good for him.

“Kendrick, merciful heavens, what are you doing?”

Kendrick was sure he’d only closed his eyes for a moment or two. He glared at his steward. “Trying to rest, old man. A task in which, I might add, you are not aiding me in the slightest.” He rubbed his forehead in an unconscious gesture, then realized what he was doing. As if he could actually have a headache! He scowled anyway, on principle. “What is all that bloody racket?”

“The Lady Genevieve found a buyer for the blue room, my lord. Said buyer is now departing with Lady Agatha’s collection.”

Kendrick sat bolt upright. “She did what? She was to be gone by first light!”

Worthington brushed a bit of lint from his jacket. “I think she changed her mind, my dear boy.”

Kendrick leaped to his feet. “Bloody hell, Worthington, why didn’t you tell me?”

“I never cared for Lady Agatha’s taste. An opinion you share, I believe.”

“I wanted Genevieve out, damn it, and you knew it.”

“Indeed,” Worthington observed, unperturbed.

Kendrick shot his steward a displeased glare and stomped up the stairs, wishing he had a body, for he would have made a fine, satisfying sound of irritation if he’d had feet to do it with. He stopped at the entrance to the kitchen and watched his prey charming an old crusty couple whose blue blood was so thick it made their skin match the horrendous blue furniture that was just disappearing out the front door.

“I’m so pleased the furniture is going to a good home,” Genevieve gushed. “I did so want to find the right buyer for it.”

“Rest assured. Lady Seakirk, that we will take painstakingly good care of the items,” the older woman replied, her words dripping with self-importance. “Of course, we have only a few pieces of our own we would consider parting with in trade, some of the lesser items, you understand.”

“Of course, I understand,” Genevieve assured her. “Perhaps later in the month I might drop by.”

“Not without an appointment, my dear. So many important people to see and so little time in which to do it. I couldn’t possibly see you on less than two weeks’ notice.”

Kendrick’s anger was transferred momentarily from Genevieve to the blue blood who was currently belittling her so thoroughly. He was half tempted to jump out of hiding and scare the woman and her retiring husband witless. On second thought, that wasn’t such a bad idea.

“What is the meaning of this?” he thundered, striding out into the hall.

The woman promptly got the vapors. Perhaps she’d heard about Seakirk’s illustrious reputation, one Kendrick never hesitated to augment every chance he had. The more people who believed the keep to be haunted, the more peace and quiet he’d have.

Genevieve flashed Kendrick a glare before she turned a solicitous glance on her customer.

“It’s just the wind, Lady Hampton. Lord Hampton, I believe your car has arrived. I will phone you later. Good-bye.”

With that, she hustled them both out the door and shut it firmly. Kendrick marched over and gave her his most ferocious frown.

“I demand to know what you’re doing!”

She leaned back against the door and yawned. It wasn’t a ladylike yawn, it was a yawn of pure weariness. Or boredom. Kendrick wasn’t sure which it was, but he knew she was trying to insult him with it and he didn’t like it.

“Damn you, wench, answer me!”

Genevieve pushed away from the door. “Boy, moving is hungry work. Worthington,” she hollered, “I’m ready for lunch now.”

“It isn’t time yet, my lady,” Worthington called from the kitchen.

“I don’t care,” Genevieve said crossly. “I guess I’ll have to fix it myself.”

Kendrick’s mouth fell open when she walked past him as if he weren’t there. She had completely missed his glare, which he was sure had been formidable. He could only watch stupidly as she sauntered across the floor, her well-formed shape clad in jeans and a long sweater. Her hair was caught up at the back of her head in something that greatly resembled a horse’s tail. He watched it bob with irrepressible pertness as she continued on her way into the kitchen.

Her disappearance galvanized him to action. Damn the wench if she thought to walk away from him! He strode angrily across the floor and into the kitchen, placing himself next to her as she reached for the handle of the icebox. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so irritated.

“I grow weary of your disrespect!”

She opened the door so quickly, he flinched. Had he possessed a body, the door would have smacked him in the face. As it was, it left welts on his pride.

“I will not be ignored!”

“Worthington, we’re out of ice cream and I really wanted a milk shake. Can you go to the store for me?”

“My lady, ice cream is bad for you.”

The door slammed shut. “I don’t care,” Genevieve said very distinctly. “You’re not my mother and I will not be told what I can and cannot eat. If I want ice cream, that’s what I want and it’s your job to get it for me. Got it?”

Kendrick folded his arms over his chest and waited to see what Worthington would do. Now Genevieve would see who was at the head of the culinary garrison. Worthington’s word in the kitchen was law and it was past time Genevieve realized that.

“Of course, my lady,” Worthington said humbly. “Your wish is my command. Chocolate milk shakes morning, noon and night if it pleases you.”

Kendrick snorted in disgust. So much for spine.

Genevieve gave a very satisfied hrumph and marched out of the kitchen, nose high, horse’s tail bobbing arrogantly. Kendrick grunted.

“Pitiful, Worthington.”

Worthington only smiled contentedly. “She has spirit, that one. You have to admit that.”

“I don’t have to admit anything,” Kendrick muttered as he left the kitchen. His heart grew heavier with every step he took toward his third-floor study. She hadn’t been driven conveniently insane. Frightening her had obviously been a dismal failure. After the insulting lack of respect and disturbing lack of fear she had shown that afternoon, Kendrick knew there was only one choice left him.

He’d have to kill her.

Genevieve wiped her hands on her jeans as she sat in front of the fireplace in her room much later that evening, waiting for her ghost. She had no doubts he would appear that night and be furious over her treatment of him that afternoon. If there was one thing he obviously couldn’t bear, it was to be ignored. Well, she wouldn’t ignore him any more. Once he appeared, she’d invite him to sit. They would talk calmly and rationally. There was certainly nothing a bit of communication couldn’t solve.

Was he testing her, just to see what she was made of? Or was he trying to frighten her into leaving? Well, that just wasn’t going to happen. She could learn to put up with him. It could work out tolerably well for the both of them.

She felt the hair on the back of her neck stand up and knew he was in her room. Then she looked in the long mirror hanging on the wall and caught the reflection of a blade hovering in the air behind her. She gulped.

Then the dagger positioned itself over her back. She closed her eyes in self-defense.

“That’s sort of the cowardly way of doing it, isn’t it?” she squeaked, clinging to the arms of the chair. At any moment, she was sure she would hear the sound of wood splintering from the force of her grip.

The knife jerked up suddenly. “I beg your pardon?”

“Stabbing me in the back,” she choked, praying she could distract him with a bit of mindless chatter. “Sort of a spineless way to go about it, don’t you think?” She winced. Oh, yes, Genevieve, insult him.

“As my only thought was to kill you as quickly as possible, I truly did not care how the deed was accomplished.”

“Wouldn’t you rather look me in the eye while you’re at it?” she offered, trying to buy more time.

“Damnation, but you are a saucy wench!”

Genevieve felt, rather than heard, him move. She soon found herself staring at thick, heavy thighs on a pair of long legs that put his groin about level with her nose. He had obviously opted for comfort that night, because he was out of armor and into faded denim. She hastily forced her eyes up past his slim hips, past the waistband of his jeans, then took in the view of his sweatshirt. Her blood pressure rose several notches. The sweatshirt was black, a bit on the ratty side, and emblazoned with the words Death to the Buchanans.

“How clever,” she said weakly.

He grunted. Well, at least his arms were still down by his sides. She followed them up, noting the width of his chest and shoulders, then the thickness of his neck. Then she saw his face.

How in the world had she ever had the presence of mind to even think around him, much less ignore him? He was so ruggedly handsome, he stole her breath away. Now, this was the way to die if she were going to go. She looked past the dark hair that hung below his shoulders, then looked up to his square jaw, firm lips and sculpted cheekbones. Such a strong face, with rugged, masculine features. Yes, indeed, this was her knight. Oh, how devastating he must have been in real life! She lifted her eyes to his again and their color caught her off guard.

“Your eyes are the most amazing shade of green,” she blurted out.

“My mother’s,” he said shortly.

“Your mother’s?” she echoed, suppressing the urge to fan her cheeks and cool down her blush.

“My eyes,” he growled impatiently. “I have my mother’s eyes.” He growled again, muttering a curse under his breath. “My father used to say they were the color of sage after it had been in the sun too long.”

“How romantic,” Genevieve said, smiling in delight. “But he was joking, of course.” With parents like that, surely this ghost couldn’t be all bad.

He was speechless for a moment or two. Then he managed an unconvincing grunt.

“Aye, he was.”

“You have a lovely accent, you know.”

He clapped his hand to his forehead, exasperated. “This is possibly the most ridiculous situation I have ever found myself in,” he exclaimed. “I come to kill a woman and now I stand chatting with her as calmly as if we strolled in the king’s gar-den. By the saints, demoiselle, you are making me daft!”

“Oh, but I’m sure you really don’t want to kill me,” Genevieve said quickly. “I’d really like to chat. In fact, why don’t you have a seat and let’s talk—”

“You foolish twit,” he sputtered in frustration. “I do want to kill you! Why do you think I brought this bloody knife?”

Genevieve was hard-pressed to stifle her indulgent smile. Why, the man was a pushover. He’d tried to intimidate her for three days with pretend swords and things and now he was trying to make her think his weapon was real? Not likely. Her courage returned in a rush. She held out her hand.

“I’m Genevieve.”

“I know who you are!”

She smiled, unperturbed. “How nice. And you are…” she trailed off encouragingly.

He dropped the knife onto the chair facing her, then threw up his hands in despair.

“You, my lady,” he said with a pained look, “would drive a lunatic to madness. By the saints, will you look what I’ve been reduced to?” He turned and walked toward the door, muttering as he went. “A gelding, that’s what I’ve been reduced to. At least my father cannot see my sorry state. Saints, how he would roar!”

He vanished, the echo of his deep voice hanging in the air.

For several moments Genevieve stared at the place where he had been. Amazement was the only word she could come up with to describe her feelings. Not only had he not truly brandished his pretend knife, he had hardly shouted at her at all and their conversation had been almost polite. There was hope for him after all.

And how that knowledge pleased her. Cleaned up from all the blood and gore, he was certainly an extraordinarily handsome man. An extraordinarily handsome ghost, she corrected herself with a smile. Yes, encountering him now and then would be a pleasure. A gorgeous man who would never bother her with physical demands she wasn’t sure she knew how to satisfy. Nice, safe conversation and nothing else. Life just got better all the time.

She smiled indulgently at her memories of the evening. Her ghost had brandished that knife initially as if he actually meant to do her harm. And yet, despite his gruff demeanor, he didn’t look as though he had the heart to truly hurt a woman. A man perhaps, but not a woman.

She looked at the knife in the chair opposite her. Strange how he had managed to leave it behind when all his other weapons had disappeared. If she touched it, would her hands slide right through it as if it weren’t there? She rose slowly, not wanting to disturb any kind of illusion he might have set up for her benefit. The firelight gleamed dully on the blade, which was indeed lying on the cushion. Taking a deep breath, Genevieve reached down and touched the slim hilt.

It was cold under her fingers.

She picked up the knife and began to tremble. Her trembles turned instantly into violent shudders. The dagger slipped from her fingers and she felt the room begin to spin out of control. Good lord, it was real! He could have killed her!

She felt comforting blackness descending and she didn’t fight it. Maybe he’d take pity on her and kill her while she was passed out. She’d wake on a fluffy cloud with a harp in her hands.

Go ahead, handsome ghoul. I’ll never feel it.

Kendrick stood over the crumpled heap of his latest victim. A trace of a smile flitted over his features. How his grandmother would have liked the young woman who had stood up to him so bravely. Grandmother Gwen never could abide a girl without spunk.

He sighed. He’d rouse Worthington and have him put Genevieve back to bed. There was no sense in her catching her death from the cold. He left the knife on the floor next to her. Worthington would have to get that too. Holding it for so long had exhausted Kendrick. It was one thing to wield a weapon conjured up out of thin air and a great amount of imagination; it was quite another to pick up something from the physical world.

He sighed and dragged his hand through his hair. Ah, when had it happened? When had he become such a spineless woman that he couldn’t take a blade and plunge it through his enemy’s heart?

Since his enemy had turned out to be a fetching maid with a sharp tongue and a vast amount of courage, that’s when. By St. George’s knees, he couldn’t bring himself to kill a woman, no matter what her parentage.

“Pitiful, Seakirk,” he chided himself. “Truly pitiful.”

He made Genevieve’s inert form a small bow, conceding the battle. The outcome of the war, however, was yet to be determined.

He had the sinking feeling he wasn’t going to win this one.

Chapter Six

Bryan McShane unfolded his handkerchief and refolded it, looking in vain for a bit of fabric that wasn’t already damp with sweat. How he hated being called in to Maledica’s office, especially when the news he had to deliver was not what his superior was expecting!

“Go on in, Bryan,” a sympathetic voice encouraged.

Bryan stole a look at Cecelia, Mr. Maledica’s secretary, and managed a faint smile in the face of her understanding expression. How in the world did she manage to work for the man? Bryan would have permanent hives if he were in her place.

His timid knock was answered by an impatient bark to enter. He did, mopping his hands a final time on his handkerchief and slipping it into his pocket. He stared at the coat of arms hanging behind his employer and tried not to let the sight of the dragon rampant unnerve him. At least watching the red dragon was less unnerving than watching Maledica.

“G-good m-morning, sir,” he squeaked.

“News,” Maledica demanded. “Don’t quiver, McShane. Stand still and report.”

Bryan didn’t dare come any closer to the massive wooden desk than he already was, not even to use one of the heavy leather chairs as a shield. Maledica probably could have reached across the desk and throttled him before Bryan would have been the wiser.

It was only by chance that he had uncovered just how dangerous his employer was, though it was something that should have been apparent by the man’s appearance. Maledica was tall and very broad, something his suitcoats did nothing to hide. Along with his physique was a face that gave nothing away, features built for concealing facts, for encouraging the curious to keep their questions to themselves. The only thing that might have alerted anyone to the true nature of the man was his eyes, eyes that glinted with a continually smoldering anger and bitter amusement, as if to say I could reduce you to nothing without an effort. Bryan might have been able to ignore the warning in Maledica’s eyes had he not come out of the office late one night, following his employer by a few purely coincidental steps. A thug had jumped out from the alley. Maledica had leveled the chap with one powerful blow to the face. Bryan hadn’t loitered about to see what was left of the poor bloke, for fear his end would be along the same lines.

And now Maledica wanted news.

“A-as far as, er, news is concerned—”

“Has she signed the papers or not?” Maledica asked curtly.

“Not yet, sir, but I expect to hear from her any day now—”

“You fool!” Maledica bellowed, then shut his mouth abruptly, as if he regretted the display of emotion. He leaned forward with his wide hands splayed on the desk. “Hear me well, young McShane. Those papers must be signed and they must be signed quickly, before she escapes back to the States. You will go immediately to your car and drive to Seakirk today. You will call on Miss Buchanan and, if she is still sane, invite her to settle for the stipulated amount.”

Bryan nodded with a gulp and suppressed the urge to loosen his tie. If the choice were between saying no to Maledica and possibly facing Kendrick de Piaget again, Bryan just wasn’t sure what would be worse.

“And if she is no longer there, you will track her down and offer her compensation. I think she will be more than willing to accept it, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Bryan nodded vigorously. She’d be a fool not to take the money and run.

“Should she have departed for points unknown, you will search for her. Do not return without her signature. Is that understood?”

The unspoken threat hung in the air like a disembodied soul, sending tingle after tingle down Bryan’s spine. He had no illusions about what his fate would be should he return unsuccessful. It was enough to make a grown man weep with fear.

“That will be all, McShane.”

Bryan turned and scuttled over to the door.

“Do not betray me, McShane.”

Good lord, a mind reader too! Bryan fled.

Maledica sat back in his comfortable leather chair and smiled at the breeze that crossed his face, a breeze created by the abrupt flight of his flunky. How little intelligence McShane possessed if he thought to doublecross in this deed! No, the events were set in motion, and victory was almost within his grasp. No sniveling simpleton would cost him this prize, the one he had waited so very long to have. He swiveled his chair around and stared up at his crest, the one his family had borne in the Middle Ages. The dragon winked back at him from the surface of the burnished shield, and Maledica laughed. He could taste triumph on his tongue and nothing would stop him from savoring it fully this time.

By now the last of the Buchanans was undoubtedly frightened witless and would be more than willing to give up any right to Seakirk. And then once Seakirk was his, William Sedwick Maledica (and oh, how he loved his invented surname!) would finally have what he had sold his soul for.

Revenge.

Chapter Seven

Genevieve bounded enthusiastically down the stairs. What an incredible adventure she was living! She rubbed her hands together as she walked quickly across the stone floor of the great hall. Now was the time to have answers to all the questions she hadn’t had the presence of mind to ask before. Who was her ghost? What would he do now? What had made him so irritable, besides the obvious reason that he was no longer alive?

Worthington was puttering about near the stove, muttering under his breath.

“Smells wonderful,” Genevieve said brightly, sitting down at the long worktable.

Worthington turned and looked at her closely. “How do you feel this morning?”

“I’ve never felt better.”

“Did you sleep well?”

“Who is he?”

The corner of Worthington’s mouth tipped up in a smile “Who is who?”

“Don’t play games with me, Worthington,” she warned. “You know who I’m talking about. You’ve been withholding information and I’m sick of it. I want answers and I want them now.” Wow, she really was starting to sound like Queen Elizabeth. Genevieve put on her most formidable frown. “Tell me who he is.”

Worthington turned back to die stove. “I’m not at liberty to say, my lady.”

So, her butler wasn’t going to give. It sounded like he had taken the same courses in lawyerese Bryan McShane had. Well, it was only a minor setback. Surely there were others who knew something about the castle. All the cleaning people from the village at least knew the rumors. If Worthington wasn’t going to spill the beans, she’d just look around until she found someone who would.

“Well, then I won’t nag you,” she said, feigning an air of indifference. “Could I use your car today? I need to run into town.”

“Mine’s in the shop,” he said, pretending great interest in what was in the pan. “Take His Lordship’s Jaguar. It’s out front with the keys inside.”

“You mean Rodney’s car?” Genevieve prodded. ‘The late earl of Seakirk?”

She could tell by his profile that he was fighting his smile. “Nay, my lady. Not Rodney’s.”

“Rodney was the only earl I know of,” Genevieve snorted.

“I know of another,” he said serenely.

“Come on, Worthington,” she cajoled. “Give it up. Don’t make me fire you.”

Worthington smiled indulgently. “All in good time, my lady.”

Genevieve wasn’t about to acknowledge her ghost as anything as lofty as an earl, but it was entirely possible that the man had a penchant for expensive automobiles. “What does a ghost need with a car?”

“His Lordship loves his toys.”

“Well, I’ll try not to drive it into a ditch.”

“I don’t think he’d appreciate that.”

“I don’t think so either. And,” she added, “just so you know, I’m off to the antique shop. Research for my business.” She’d seen an ad in the paper and had the feeling if anyone would know about what sort of antiques, living or not, were in her home, it would be an antique dealer.

Worthington gave her a skeptical look as he set down a plate of eggs and ham in front of her. “Miss Adelaide is a tremendous gossip. You shouldn’t believe all her prattle.”

“And how am I to tell truth from fiction if there is no one here to help straighten me out? Unless you’d care to clear things up for me. Would you, Worthington?”

“His Lordship has a point,” Worthington grumbled. “You are a saucy wench.”

With that, he glided from the kitchen, his very proper, midnight-black coattails trailing behind him like an entourage.

The trip into town was one Genevieve would have preferred to forget. Quickly. Having the steering wheel on the wrong side of the car was uncomfortable. Driving on the wrong side of the road was damned dangerous. Knowing that she was sit-ting behind the wheel of a hundred-thousand-dollar car made her feel light-headed. Perhaps her undead host didn’t want to kill her now, but he certainly would if she totaled his favorite toy.

After only a few brushes with death and the oncoming traffic, she reached Adelaide’s Ancient Acquisitions. The acquirer herself was waiting on the step, as if she’d known Genevieve was set to arrive. Genevieve began to wonder if the entire village were haunted.

“Come in, dear child, and sit,” Adelaide said encouragingly, drawing Genevieve inside and shooing her over to a chair instantly. Adelaide had to make tea before she would even begin to talk about anything at all, and Genevieve was almost beside herself with anticipation. Perhaps now she would know who the man was who continued to haunt her even when he was away. Adelaide took her time preparing refreshments and then settled her substantial self into the chair opposite Genevieve.

Genevieve hardly had time to open her mouth to ask her most pressing question before she was inundated with gossip.

There were the usual items of interest: the grocer’s affair with the constable’s wife; the dressmaker who had lengthy private sessions with the mayor; the school superintendent’s children who had just set fire to the library. Genevieve found herself warming to the woman instantly and laughing at her tales of small-town English life.

“Now, tell me,” Adelaide said, her eyes twinkling. “Have you met him?”

Well, now this was what she’d been waiting for. Why then had she all of the sudden become reluctant to speak of him? By golly, he was her ghost. The last thing she wanted was a pack of tourists and paranormal investigators camping out on her front stoop.

But it looked as if Adelaide wasn’t to be deterred. She was waiting expectantly for Genevieve’s answer.

“Who?” Genevieve asked casually.

Adelaide smiled. “My dear, I do tend to chatter on, but I chatter selectively, believe me. I will not betray your confidence.”

Genevieve found herself smiling. “Do you know who he is?”

Adelaide’s eyes took on a dreamy look. “Is he truly as handsome as they say he is?”

“When he isn’t covered in blood and brandishing a battle axe.”

Adelaide’s eyes widened and then she giggled a most undignified giggle. “He’s up to his old tricks then.”

“Can you tell me more? My butler is hopelessly close-mouthed about his and I’m not about to ask my ghost.”

Adelaide pushed her teacup aside and leaned forward conspiratorially. This was serious gossip. Genevieve leaned forward too, not wanting to miss a single syllable of what would no doubt be gripping revelations.

“His name is Kendrick de Piaget of Artane,” Adelaide said in reverent tone. “Sir Kendrick was a son of the most powerful earl in England in the thirteenth century, Robin of Artane.”

Genevieve was grateful she hadn’t been sipping her tea or she would have choked on it. “The thirteenth century?” she gasped.

Adelaide nodded, her eyes full of barely suppressed enthusiasm. “Aye, and there wasn’t a family more powerful on the is-land at the time, or more feared and respected for their prowess in battle.”

“Wow,” Genevieve breathed. She could certainly believe that, if Kendrick’s sword were any indication.

“Now, ’tis said that Kendrick was set to wed the lady of Seakirk, Matilda. How it happened exactly has never been revealed but somehow she betrayed him and he was murdered because of it. He swore vengeance on her descendants and he’s been tormenting them a generation at a time for centuries.”

“I see,” Genevieve said, finding it difficult to swallow suddenly. And she was Matilda’s descendant. Pieces were starting to fall into place.

“I’ve never seen the man, of course, but I’ve heard the tales of his hauntings. When His Lordship is on one of his rampages, Worthington is wont to hie himself off to the pub and have a bit of peace and quiet. After a mug or two of ale, he tends to ramble.” Adelaide smiled in spite of herself. “Not that his rambling yields much. He’s too tight-lipped for that.”

“Yes, I’m well acquainted with his unwillingness to divulge details,” Genevieve nodded. She realized then that she was clutching Adelaide’s lace tablecloth as if it were a life preserver. She forced her fingers to unclench. “Can you tell me any more?”

Adelaide sighed. “I wish I could, child. Whatever else you learn about the man will be through your own doing, I’m afraid. All I know is that it’s rumored that Sir Kendrick is the rightful earl of Seakirk.”

“But how can he be the earl of Seakirk—” Genevieve started to ask, then answered her own question. “I see,” she said thoughtfully. “Then a Buchanan stole the title from him.”

“I’m sure it’s more complicated than that, my dear, but I haven’t the details to prove it.”

Genevieve nodded thoughtfully. She had the feeling those details were precisely what she needed to know if she hoped to understand the man who had haunted those solid walls near the sea for the past seven hundred years.

She drove home and then left the castle to walk along the beach. She walked until the sun set, trying to understand the man she was now sharing a home with. Had he loved Matilda? How old was he when he died? How had the murder been committed? Was there more to it than that?

She walked for hours, or what seemed to her hours by the time she was good and lost. Damn, when had it become so late? She watched as the sky turned a dark blue and the stars came out. Not even a moon to help her. Why hadn’t she thought to bring a heavier coat? She turned to go back the way she had come only to find that the tide had come in and the beach had disappeared. It was oh so tempting to sit down and cry.

Suddenly the flame from a candle appeared before her, hovering in midair.

“Lost?” a deep voice asked gruffly.

If he’d been made of flesh and bone, she would have thrown her arms around him and hugged him. “Very,” she replied hoarsely.

Kendrick de Piaget materialized, revealing the hand that held the candle aloft.

“You’re still on my land. Fortunately. A few more paces north and I wouldn’t have been able to come for you.”

“Thank you,” she murmured, looking up into his pale green eyes. She found herself smiling. They really were the color of sage.

“I don’t want you dead before I can kill you myself,” he said shortly. “Follow me. By now I should hope I know the way home.”

She nodded and scrambled after him up me slope. “Are you really Kendrick de Piaget?”

He hesitated only slightly before continuing to walk. “Aye.”

There was no more conversation for a good hour, as Genevieve didn’t have the breath for it. Kendrick obviously had forgotten that she possessed a pair of very mortal legs and couldn’t keep up with him without running. His pace was drill-sergeant swift.

She followed him through the gates and into the courtyard. The lamp hanging outside the hall door bathed the surroundings in a pale, golden light. Genevieve stopped to catch her breath.

“Did you love her?” she wheezed, hunching over with her hands on her thighs. There, the question she had been burning to ask him was finally out.

Kendrick turned a chilling glance on her. “If you had any idea how I felt about the woman, you would not dare ask.”

“Oh,” Genevieve gulped. “I see.”

“So you do,” he said curtly and promptly vanished.

Genevieve did nothing but breathe until her side ceased to ache and she was no longer gasping for air. She straightened and frowned. Getting answers out of this man would be more difficult than she had anticipated.

“Well,” she said, after stewing for several moments, “if you loved her so much, why do you hate me? I mean, I’m her descendant and all, but—”

He appeared instantly, towering over her. “I despised Matilda,” he said, his eyes flashing. “Not even when I thought I loved her did I truly love her. She was a sniveling, whining bitch who thought of no one but herself. Thanks to her, my life is hell.”

“Why?”

“Because I cannot leave Seakirk!”

“But what has that got to do with me?”

“You live and breathe.”

“Do I remind you of her so much?”

Kendrick’s frown was fierce. “You look nothing like her. And that isn’t the point.”

“Then what is? Whoever said trying to kill me would solve your problems?”

“I deduced it myself.”

“You deduced wrong, buddy,” she said, glaring at him. Rude and unreasonable. Maybe it would be best to leave him alone until he was in a better mood. She walked right through him, then gasped when she realized what she had done. She turned slowly to face him.

He looked as astonished as she felt. “No one has ever dared such a thing before,” he said.

“You were in my way,” she said, regaining her composure. “Maybe you’ll move the next time.”

She made it back to her bedroom without seeing him again. Her preparations for bed were made by memory; she was far too preoccupied. Now she knew who was haunting her and she knew why. At least part of the why. Worthington would have to provide her with the rest of the answers.

No, she thought decidedly, she wouldn’t ask Worthington. It was Kendrick’s story to tell and she’d just wait to hear it until he was ready to tell it. Knowing him even as little as she did, she had the feeling she shouldn’t hold her breath. Well, it didn’t matter. She wasn’t going anywhere and he certainly didn’t look to be going anywhere. They’d have plenty of time to talk in the future.

She lit the candle next to the bed and slipped under the covers. Reading didn’t appeal to her so she simply lay there and stared off into space.

“We are quite civilized here at Seakirk,” a deep voice growled. “You needn’t use just a candle.”

He was leaning against the footpost of her bed.

“Don’t you ever knock?”

“This is my chamber.”

“I wasn’t about to take any of the others,” she said with a shudder. “And, as I seriously doubt you sleep any, you surely don’t need this bed.”

“It hardly matters whether or not I use it. Seakirk belongs to me and I decide the activities that go on within these walls. And,” he said, looking at her pointedly, “I don’t like you in my bed.”

“Kill me then,” she said, with a shrug.

“You’ll bleed on my sheets.”

“Then drag me downstairs and kill me outside.”

A dark frown appeared on his face. “I cannot.”

“You held the knife.”

“It took an enormous amount of energy. Carrying you is quite beyond my capabilities.”

“Learn to live with me then,” she said, “because I’m not going anywhere.” She leaned over and blew out the candle. “Good night, Kendrick.”

Genevieve lay as still as a corpse, praying she wouldn’t soon feel the sting of a blade across her throat. Had she been a complete idiot by standing up to him? She knew he wouldn’t kill her. Didn’t she?

There was no sound in the room, and finally she began to relax. She carefully pulled the covers up over her ears. Got to protect that jugular from vampires. Or would her ghost protect her? He might if he thought the alternative would leave him with blood on his sheets. Not exactly a paragon of chivalry, but with a little patience, perhaps he could be taught manners.

Was he still out there? Genevieve didn’t dare lift her head to look. So instead, she contented herself with a determined set to her jaw.

“I’m not leaving, you know,” she said, to no one in particular.

A dissatisfied snort answered her. “I gathered as much.”

A hint of humor. So Kendrick de Piaget wasn’t a completely lost cause.

“Good night, Kendrick.”

She waited for several minutes, then felt weariness steal over her like a soft mist. She was almost asleep when she heard his deep whisper echo in the room.

“Good night, Genevieve.”